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<title>The Dead Stay Buried by ScaryScarecrows</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28635705">The Dead Stay Buried</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows'>ScaryScarecrows</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Autumn Effect [24]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arlen Georgia, I'm too far into this, loving reminder that Jonathan fed Granny to crows and SHE'S STILL THERE, thing Nancy should do: go home, thing Nancy won't do: go home</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:00:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,306</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28635705</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
      <p>May or may not continue, as I wish, but, well...it sounded so fun.</p>
    </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Autumn Effect [24]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/312168</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>May or may not continue, as I wish, but, well...it sounded so fun.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s hot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not just hot, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>heavy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, dead air that may as well be molasses. Even the flies are lazy, drifting along like they’re bobbing in water. The dirt road is empty, but Nancy can just see a church steeple in the distance, and off to the left, back behind an overgrown field, sits a big old house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What a place for her car to give out. Must be the heat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs, gets out, and trudges towards the house. The closer she gets, the more dilapidated it looks; the wicker swing on the front porch is rotting, the columns are steadily being swallowed by kudzu, and the only sign of life is a crow perched on the far railing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A foul stench hits her when she gets up the steps, and a glance around turns up something furry and dead lying on the boards near the crow. She catches a glimpse of maggots wriggling through flesh before she turns away, shuddering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe nobody lives here anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nancy swallows, squares her shoulders, and raps firmly on the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For several minutes, there’s no response. She’s just thinking that no, nobody lives here, when one of the heavy front doors swings back and she’s hit with cold air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tall man who’s opened the door is ruffled, with streaks of dust in his hair and his shirtsleeves rumpled like he’s pulled them down in a hurry. His glasses shine in the light, obscuring his eyes, and he doesn’t sound very happy when he says, “Haven’t seen you around here before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry to trouble you,” she says quickly, because he seems the type of man who won’t reassure her that he is not troubled, “but my car overheated out there.” She points towards it. “And I was wondering if I could use a phone to call a tow truck?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man laughs. It’s not a nice sound; it’s short and bitter, like a crow’s caw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No tow to call,” he says. “Your best bet is to settle in and wait for sundown--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jonathan?” a woman’s voice calls. “Who’s at the door?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know yet,” the man-Jonathan-says easily. His voice makes Nancy’s skin crawl for some reason. “This young lady’s car broke down in the heat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you it was miserable.” There’s swift footsteps. “You are the only person I know who doesn’t melt stepping outside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s been hotter days.” He sounds amused. “When I say this place was built on blood, sweat, and tears, I do mean literally.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh.” The owner of the voice comes into view. She’s a small woman, shorter than Nancy. She looks less ruffled than the man, but her hair is escaping from the tiny ponytail it’s in and she has several stitches in her right cheek. “It is absolute </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> and I don’t like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At least we have fans. When I was a boy, I was lucky to have a hand fan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, I know, and you walked six miles both ways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uphill.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let her in, it’s hot and you’re letting out the cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no, I couldn’t--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, get in,” the woman says, laughing and swatting Jonathan out of the way. “Sun sets in a few hours, you can sit and wait it out, and we’ll follow you to town.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there a mechanic there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Town over,” Jonathan says. “One can probably get out here tomorrow, maybe the day after. This way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The house is dark. There’s light patches on the walls where pictures once hung, but despite the sun outside, the halls are heavily shadowed. The air is indeed cold, but it smells stale, and the rugs under her feet are threadbare and nibbled at the edges. A mousetrap is just visible under an end table. Nancy sees a limp tail before they round the corner and come into a kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kitchen’s brighter, though not...the kitchen at home is, well, homey. It smells like baked goods or tea or spices, depending on the day, and it’s bright and warm and welcoming. This room is lit, sure, but it’s chilly and dreary and, quite frankly, unsettling. The butcher knives hanging on the wall are awfully shiny, and there’s a meat cleaver on the counter that looks like someone just walked away from it...despite there being no food in sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lemonade?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sweet or sour?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman laughs again and hops up on the counter, bare feet dangling above the tiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want the sweet. Jonathan hates sugar, he puts...what, a tablespoon at best?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan hums and draws a pitcher from the fridge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hardly my fault you like a toothache.” He slides a glass across the wooden table. “Sit down, drink up. Can’t have you dyin’ of heatstroke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nancy sits, takes a sip. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> sweet, but infinitely better than nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” she says, “for not introducing myself. My name is Nancy Drew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan gives her a long look. Now that they’re away from the sun, she can see his eyes, a bright, brilliant blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jonathan Keeny,” he says at last. “This is my wife, Katrina.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice to meet you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile he gives is just this side of sickly, and he turns back to the fridge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome to stay until sundown,” he says, “but don’t wander the house. It’s not safe.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The storm hits before Nancy’s even finished her lemonade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d been halfway through the glass when the clouds started blocking out the sun, and three-fourths of the way through when there was a clap of thunder that rattled the windows and the sky began to pour massive raindrops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan frowns at the sky like it’s offended him and adjusts his glasses, long fingers sweeping a lock of hair out from behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, now,” he says, “glad you weren’t driving when this hit. Every year at least one person gets washed away in this kind of storm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Katrina (‘call me Kitty, Katrina’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>frilly</span>
  </em>
  <span>’) slides off the counter and heads to the fridge, pulls out the lemonade and a glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want more?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kitty shrugs, fills the glass, and turns to the little window over the sink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s ugly out there,” she says. “If it doesn’t clear up, you’re not leaving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I couldn’t impose--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And have your potential death on our conscience?” Jonathan asks, lips quirking up like he thinks this is funny. “Certainly not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s grateful for the offer. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> ugly out there, but...this house, and the people in it, are giving her the heebie-jeebies. It’s silly. She knows it’s silly. But she can’t help it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you lived here long?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just moved back,” Jonathan says, taking a sip of his own lemonade. “I grew up in this house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Moved from where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you nosey?” He rolls his boney shoulders. “Gotham.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That might explain the heebie-jeebies. Nancy’s never been to Gotham, and honestly, she has no plans to go. She loves travelling, it’s not that. And she loves a good mystery-the Batman? Intriguing!-but Gotham has a </span>
  <em>
    <span>reputation</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Highest murder rate in America, and crawling with professional criminals. It takes a special kind of person to live there, let alone move there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We thought we’d spend some well-earned vacation time working on this place,” Jonathan’s saying now. “Turn it into a vacation home or something, maybe rent it out. Not sure yet--good Lord, it is comin’ down out there.” He squints at the sky. “Kitty, you should stay in. You’ll drown in a puddle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You-!” She swats at his arm in outrage. “I will not!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a very real risk, and then I’d have to go through the rigamarole of hiding your body. I don’t want that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is he joking? Is that how they joke in Gotham?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’d come back to haunt you,” Kitty says, grinning. “You know, never a dry towel again, nice, sopping wet bedsheets…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, that’s uncalled for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s only out of love.” She leans over to kiss his cheek. “Nancy. What are you doing in this little spot of nowhere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was visiting a friend in Statesboro*, thought I’d take the scenic route home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Home to where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“River Heights.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jonathan raises his eyebrows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> out of your way,” he says. Outside, there’s a </span>
  <b>BOOM</b>
  <span> of thunder that shakes the house. “Well, if this doesn’t clear up, you’ll have to stay the night, that’s all there is to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I couldn’t impose--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense! Granny’d have my head if I threw you out in this.” He laughs, but it’s tinged with bitterness. “This place is plenty big, I assure you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s just opening her mouth to protest a little bit more when </span>
  <b>something</b>
  <span> slams into the window. It’s big and black and a second later, Nancy realizes that it’s a crow, head now at an unnatural angle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn birds,” Jonathan mutters. Kitty snorts and hops back off the counter as the mangled crow slides down out of sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on. We did get the parlor cleaned up, we can all go in there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>* * *</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rain does not let up. Not all afternoon, not through dinner-cold cuts from the fridge-and not by eight o’ clock at night. If anything, it’s gotten worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Keenys put her in a room on the third floor that looks like it might have been a child’s; there’s a big teddy bear in the corner, and a handful of half-rotted wooden toys on the shelves. But it’s dust-free, and dry, and, well...it’s better than trying to get anywhere in this weather.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t wander,” Jonathan warns her. “Some of the floorboards are ready to give out, and you wouldn’t be the first to fall down the stairs in the dark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for putting me up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, we are known for our hospitality. Good night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good night, Nancy!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then they’re gone. Despite the fact that the walk up here was creaky and loud, she doesn’t hear where they go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brr.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no cell service out there, which, honestly, makes Nancy more than a little uneasy. She wants to call Dad and let him know she’s okay, and she wouldn’t mind calling Hannah just...just for a friendly chat. Something is </span>
  <em>
    <span>off</span>
  </em>
  <span> about her hosts. She can’t place it, but something’s off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rain’s still coming down in sheets, which means that when she looks out the window, she can barely see anything. Just water and, if she squints, what she thinks is an old scarecrow out in the field.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s an ugly creaking sound upstairs and she worries, for a minute, that the wind will rip the whole roof off. But it doesn’t, and she puts on her pajamas and gets into bed and tries to sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That doesn’t work out. She tries. She really does. But this house is unsettling and the storm is </span>
  <b>loud</b>
  <span> and she’d die for a glass of water. And she knows they said don’t, but...she remembers how they got up here. She’ll just jog downstairs and they’ll never know. She has a flashlight, she won’t fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She reaches the second-story landing and hears voices. And, well, she knows she shouldn’t eavesdrop, and she doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean</span>
  </em>
  <span> to, but…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--this house,” Jonathan’s saying. This is their room, she thinks, two doors away from the stairs. “Sooner we can get back to Gotham, the happier I’ll be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, I could Skype you,” Kitty says. “Carry you around the house?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, a real one this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With what internet?” Silence. “No, it won’t kill me. Now sit up, I want to see how that’s healing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You worry too much--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s creaking and grumbling and a muffled shriek, followed by a, “Your hands are </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold</span>
  </em>
  <span>, watch where you put them!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do it to me.” Jonathan sounds more amused than he has all day. “In the middle of winter, I might add.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Humph.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you’re fine...that’s good. Stitches might be able to come out in another few days.” Stitches? The ones on her face, or different ones? “And the bruising’s going down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Different ones, then, Nancy thinks. What happened there?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you know me, I’m always fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm.” Rustling. “Sometimes you are, and sometimes you--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Kitty!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a muted thud and Nancy’s left to think Kitty’s tackled him onto the bed, because there’s no...sounds of death, or anything. She continues downstairs, because some things are meant to be private, and gets herself a glass of water from the tap. It’s spooky down here at night, with the white-sheeted furniture jumping out at her like cheap ghosts. There’s squeaking down here, too, and, once, a sharp </span>
  <b>snap!</b>
  <span> from the other room. She doesn’t go to investigate that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, okay, back to bed she goes…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Keeneys are still talking, voices low and serious, and she means to ignore them this time when she catches a, “--worry about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, she’ll be gone in the morning.” Are they talking about her? “And that’ll be the last interruption we have, I’m sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It sure sounds like they’re talking about her. And okay, she is an uninvited guest, that’s fair, but Jonathan sounds...unreasonably annoyed. So does Kitty, for that matter. Are they hiding something, or just not, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>people</span>
  </em>
  <span> people?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope so,” Kitty says. Then, “So, what’s tomorrow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll see how the rain is. If it’s still going, we can’t handle the basement; it floods…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nancy shrugs and heads back to bed, shutting the door tightly behind her. It’s probably nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, well, she is going to town tomorrow. If she asks a few questions, well...it’s only asking a few questions. It’s not like she’s really </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing</span>
  </em>
  <span> anything. What’s the harm?</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*Google says the actual Arlen </span>
  <em>
    <span>may</span>
  </em>
  <span> have been located in Bulloch County, of which Statesboro is the county seat. (If it was, it was tiny and isn’t a thing anymore.)</span>
</p><p> </p>
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